Roots

When I first began serving as a lay reader, I developed a curious sense of rootedness. The roots seemed to sprout from my feet, anchoring me through the layers of Trinity’s foundation into the black Iowa soil deep below. The sensation was palpably real. Soon I found myself waiting whenever I stepped to the lectern to read scripture or lead the Prayers of the People. The pause, I suspect, is just discernable; but I wait to speak until I can feel those roots firmly grounding me in place.

As my departure for seminary draws nearer, I am acutely aware of how much I will miss my home parish. The fussy twins in their exhausted parents’ arms. Four-year old YY, big girl that she is, taking herself to the healing alcove for the laying on of hands. D, who was a member of my discernment committee, sitting beside me in the pew, reading the New Testament in its original Greek. J offering up a reggae version of Hymn 659 that was arranged by one of our jazz students. The Rector, home now from the first of two sabbatical pilgrimages, speaking words I needed to hear about traveling light. The Assistant Rector, absent on vacation this morning, but present nonetheless because I can still feel how she traced the sign of the cross upon my forehead when we parted.

Amidst all this, I had the irresistible urge to slip out of my shoes. The 8:45 service is known for its informality…but bare feet? Please. I attempted to push the desire aside, albeit unsuccessfully. Finally, during the reading of the Gospel, I gave in. I wanted to feel those roots and I wanted nothing—not even my sandals—between me and the worn hardwood floor. And so, I discretely tucked my sandals beneath the pew and stood with my bare feet on the cool wooden floor. Wood that is saturated with generations of prayer. I remained barefoot throughout the rest of the service, feeling those roots. Feeling, to paraphrase the psalmist, like a tree, planted beside a stream of water.

(The image, "Getting Grounded," is by Jan Richardson and is used via subscription.)